


even the weariest river

by like_theletter



Series: MCYT [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (not a reader-insert), Angst, Blood and Injury, But also, Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, Platonic Cuddling, Unhappy Ending, canon divergent from the end of nov 16 events, in the saddest possible way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:42:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27836245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_theletter/pseuds/like_theletter
Summary: “How long has it been?” He asks, hushed. There’s an edge of a whine creeping into his words, but it’s clear he’s fighting it as much as he can.You answer truthfully: “I don’t know. Three hours, maybe?”He pauses, then hums as if the news doesn’t bother him.“They’ll come,” you add, uselessly.(Tommy and Tubbo are stuck. There isn't much Tubbo can do except be there for him.)
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, platonic - Relationship
Series: MCYT [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077845
Comments: 60
Kudos: 344
Collections: SBI--NC





	even the weariest river

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [your peace and your serenity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944262) by [unrequited_heartbreak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequited_heartbreak/pseuds/unrequited_heartbreak). 



> Title from "The Garden of Proserpine" by Algernon Charles Swinburne.
> 
> i cried writing this and in the least creepy way, i hope you cry reading this. also if there are any glaring errors, i wrote this at 3am: sue me.
> 
> this was heavily inspired by "your peace and your serenity" by unrequited_heartbreak, a fic Big Man Qar and i have cried over many many many times. go read it NOW !!!
> 
> the wave quote is directly inspired by the good place, which i have also cried over. sensing a theme?
> 
> leave a comment if you liked it or if you're incredibly mad at me after reading this :) have a good day!!!

“My head hurts,” he says. His voice is wrecked. 

“You’re concussed,” you remind him. “Is this helping or hurting?” You’re referring to your fingers carding through his hair gently, avoiding the sticky patches of blood at his hairline. 

“Helping,” he says, too quickly. “Definitely helping.” 

Your heart splinters. You inspect his wide blue eyes, clear and even as an undisturbed pond. It’s a contrast to the spitfire he always has been. You miss seeing that fire. You miss a lot of things about him. 

Instead of voicing this, you arrange your tone into something resembling teasing and say, “And you say I’m the clingy one.”

He gives a half-hearted noise of protest, though it feels like he’s only doing it for your sake. Besides, you both know it’s true. Regardless of the passion he no longer has. 

“How long has it been?” He asks, hushed. There’s an edge of a whine creeping into his words, but it’s clear he’s fighting it as much as he can.

You answer truthfully: “I don’t know. Three hours, maybe?”

He pauses, then hums as if the news doesn’t bother him. 

“They’ll come,” you add, uselessly. 

He seems to realize he’s waited a beat too long to answer, and says quickly, “Obviously.” 

You both know no one is coming. You, personally, are not sure how long you’ll keep up appearances— for his sake, or for your own.

He shifts, trying to sit up, and you feel your heart rate skyrocket. You press down on his shoulders: “Tommy, stop, you’re going to hurt—”

“I’m—” A gasp strangles the end of his sentence and he coughs wetly through a broken sob that will haunt your nightmares if you get out of here alive. You feel the splintered pieces of your heart burst into flame. 

He’s crying. He never cries. 

He never cried Before, when he would laugh carefree and often, when smiles seldom slipped off your faces, when you two were children instead of soldiers. (You are still children.) He hasn’t cried since, either, with the exception of your near-death. (You wonder if you are still soldiers. Is the war over?) 

(Is it ever really over?)

You have watched the light drain from his eyes. You have seen his heart harden, calcify, turn hard as diamonds under the weight of a million betrayals. You have listened as his laugh dwindled quieter and quieter then not at all. You have watched everyone leave him. You have not seen him cry. 

It hurts to think about, but you do— how he is broken, mentally, from what the people he loved have done: the nightmares he wakes from heaving and gasping, the paranoia, the exhaustion. And now he is broken, physically: the pool of blood that’s been growing steadily beneath him these past few hours. 

He is crying. You shush him, guide his head back towards your lap. 

You suppose you could pity yourself, too. Your nightmares and paranoia and exhaustion are just as present, as severe as his. But you’ve never been one for self-pity, and besides, there will be time to think about that for you. He has no such mercy. 

There is no mistaking this moment for what it is. This is how it ends.

He knows it. You know it. As the last of his sobs taper off, he catches your eye. (You two have always been in sync.)

“Let me up,” he says, and the worst part is that in the wake of this realization, he sounds a little lighter. There’s a trace of the petulance you all used to mock him for, the petulance you’d have given anything to hear genuine and bright again. 

“You really shouldn’t sit up.”

“Fuck you, I do what I want,” he says, sounding the closest to his old self he has in months. And what can you say to that?

Obligingly, you cradle his chest and help him move to the wall in a sitting position, pretending you don’t hear his gasping and coughing. You move to sit across from him but he grabs your arm weakly, squeezing it for the briefest moment, before snatching his hand back and looking away. He’s never been able to show affection. You don’t know why you expected that to change. 

You wrap your arm around him and he puts on a show of rolling his eyes like he didn’t want it there in the first place. You’re sure it’s for your benefit this time. A smile tugs at your lips, the kind that hurts. 

“D’you remember when we saw that cow with the mushrooms on it when we were out exploring?” His voice is thin. You tighten your arm around him, as if you can hold him together through sheer force of will.

“Yeah.”

“What was that dumb fucking thing you called them? Moo-something, or—”

“Mooshrooms, Tommy, that’s what they’re called.”

He frowns. “I call bullshit.” 

You feel a laugh, or the ghost of one, bubble out, and for a brief moment he looks pleased. He has always made you laugh. 

If you get out of here, you don’t know if you’ll ever laugh again.

That thought must show on your face, because his brows furrow. Slowly, because it pains him, he leans his head on your shoulder. He coughs wetly.

“Tommy,” you whisper, and everything that you’ve been putting aside is hitting you, the fact that he’s _dying_ , your best friend is dying, your best friend will be dead before you see sunlight again. You swallow those feelings because they’re choking you, and what you’re about to ask is important. “Are you scared?”

His breath hitches. 

Your hand finds his. You brush your thumb over his vein and feel the threadiness of his fragile pulse. 

It is three more seconds before he answers. “You know me, Big T. I’m not scared of anything.” The waver in his voice suggests otherwise, but if pretending will make him feel better, the least you can do is play along. You nod and press a kiss to his hair.

Minutes pass. He shudders. Finally, in a voice thin as paper and much too small, he says, “Yes.” His breathing stutters and he chokes on his tears. “ _Yes_.” 

“Tommy…” You are holding him as he cries. Your best friend is dying. Is this how he felt when his older brother burned your skin away? Is this what he felt, watching your eyelids flutter as you slipped into blessed unconsciousness? What had he done for you?

You can’t remember what he did for you when you were dying. You have to remember. You have to remember so you can return the favor. You have to remember because while you have never been much for debts or grudges, Tommy collected them like trading cards, and if it were you he would remember: it would matter to him so it matters to you. You squeeze your eyes shut and feel the ghost of a hand through your hair.

“I’ll be here with you the whole time,” you finally choke out, and it feels like you’re dying all over again. He’s still crying. His hand grips yours weakly. 

“T-talk to me, please,” he gasps.

You take a breath and squeeze his hand, searching your mind for something to say, but you are sixteen and you have never held the hand of your best friend as he dies before and you do not know what to say and this is the most important thing you will ever do.

To kill time, you maneuver him so you are cradling his torso; his head is just under your chin. You feel his prominent ribs beneath your hands and are reminded just how much the world has failed him, failed both of you. 

“Picture a wave,” you say, and your voice is already breaking. You clear your throat. “Picture a wave.”

Through heaving breaths, he says, “That’s stupid.”

“Tommy, listen,” you say, because you know he’s deflecting. You need him to hear this. He listens.

“A wave, in the ocean. You can measure it, right, how tall it is and whatever?” 

You feel him nod. His head knocks against your chin.

“Now picture that same wave crashing on the shore. It’s gone.”

He makes a choked sound. “Tubbo—”

“—But the water is still there.” You talk over him, voice wavering but rising in volume. “Tommy, the water is still there, right?”

He pauses, then nods again. His blood is seeping into your shirt. Your best friend is dying. You are sixteen. He is sixteen. Your best friend is dying.

“The wave was just—” your voice breaks, “—another way for the water to be, for a little while.” 

He says nothing, but his grip on your hand is loosening. You are running out of time.

“And then it—” The sob takes you by surprise, strangling your words. You try again, because you are running out of time, because your best friend is dying and he needs to hear this, “Then it returns to the ocean. Where it’s supposed to be.”

There is a long pause. There is a terrifying moment where you think he’s already gone. 

He says shakily, “When’d you get so smart, huh?” 

That’s what it takes for the tears to flow freely. He must feel your hitching breaths because he struggles to turn around, to lean back against the wall and face you. “Hey, hey, none of that.”

You say through gasping sobs, “S-stop, you’ll hurt y—”

“Doesn’t hurt anymore, Big T,” he all but whispers, a bittersweet smile crossing his face. “Never felt pain, remember?”

“T-Tommy— ”

“Shhhh. It’s okay.” He cups your face in a trembling, bloodied hand. He is comforting you. Your best friend is dying. He is comforting you. 

You have to know. You have to know if you’ve helped, if you’ve done anything. If you’ve repaid your debt. If you’ve brought him any comfort at all. “Are you still scared?” you whisper. 

He searches your eyes. “No,” he says softly. “No, I’m not scared of…” His eyes scan your face intensely, like he’s committing it to memory. “I’m scared of,” he swallows, “being without you. You’re my— you’re my best friend.”

There were times, long ago, when you first became friends, that you questioned if he truly cared about you, how much of his bits were based in real feelings. Those questions faded over the years as the little moments of vulnerability piled up, though he would always cover with blustering confidence or accusations of you being clingy. Secretly, though, you wished he would just confirm it outright. 

The irony of the timing is not lost on you.

“I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” you whisper, and you reach up and take his hand. He stares at you for a moment. He pulls you into a hug.

You feel his breath on your cheek, you feel his ribs under your hand, you feel his heartbeat thrumming under your fingertips. He takes a deep breath, and with gentleness you will never forget, says, “You’ll be fine.”

He is sixteen. You are sixteen. You are children. You are soldiers. This is how it ends.

“Love you, Big T,” he mumbles. 

“I love you too, Tommy.” 

You feel his ribs under your palms. You do not feel his breathing. 

This is how it ends.

Gently, you lift him off of you, and lean him against the wall. There is a streak of blood on his cheek. His eyes are closed. Blonde hair falls in his face. You wipe away the blood, brush his hair back, cup his cheek in your hand. 

You look at your best friend. His eyes are closed. He could be sleeping, but you know he never sleeps that peacefully.

_Slept._

Past tense.

Your best friend is dead. Your best friend is _dead._

And it hits you all at once, doesn’t it? Your best friend is _dead._ You will never bicker with him again, never watch the sunset with him, never see the glint in his eye promising chaos, never hold him after a nightmare, _you will never hear his laugh again._ You are sixteen. He was sixteen. 

You are crying— no, you are sobbing— you are weeping _,_ wailing. You are sixteen and you are _screaming_ at the unfairness of it all, at the world that was supposed to protect you, at the people who were supposed to love you, at the childhood that was supposed to shelter you. You have never been the loud one of the two of you but he isn’t fucking _here,_ is he?

You’ve screamed yourself hoarse. Your best friend is dead. No one is coming for you.

You’re alone. 

This is how it ends. 

**Author's Note:**

> ...That no life lives forever;  
> That dead men rise up never;  
> That even the weariest river  
> Winds somewhere safe to sea.


End file.
